


Dark Night With No Light

by TheSunshineDragon



Series: Pieces of The Healer's Cottage [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Gen, Healers, NCT might appear, Other tags to be added, be warned it's vaguely set in a very historically inaccurate medieval england, i blame my lack of planning for that, the england part not the historical inaccuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28476225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSunshineDragon/pseuds/TheSunshineDragon
Summary: Before Chickens in the Yard, Minho became an orphan, was an apprentice healer in a castle, and then a fugitive framed for an murderous act he didn't commit. When life finally deals him a bad hand, he finds himself on the run for his life, hoping to escape his past and those intent on seeing him dead.
Series: Pieces of The Healer's Cottage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917703
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Dark Night With No Light

**Author's Note:**

> If the beginning of this is strangely familiar, it's because it's taken directly from the fic that started this whole series, Chickens in the Yard, which you don't really need to read first to understand what's going on here. 
> 
> But yes! Minho's backstory. Figured it was probably about time we had it with the way CitY is developing :)
> 
> Title is taken from Still With You by Jungkook (this was also the title of a different fic I had up, which was taken down a few weeks ago and is currently under editing because of some serious story changes). 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was cold and muddy, a miserable drizzle slowly soaking the clothing of the funeral goers. Minho clung tightly to his uncle’s hand, small body quaking from a mixture of lack of warmth and confusion at the ceremony going on before him.

Two fresh mounds of dirt were in front of them, their only markers being bouquets of wilting wildflowers at the head of each, picked from the surrounding fields, probably by one of the older girls from the village. Minho frowned as he tried to understand the words of the small village’s priest, the Latin pulsating through the air as the prayer dragged on. Losing interest, his mind wandered, and he tugged on his uncle’s hand. “Where are Mama and Papa?”

His uncle quietly hushed him. “I’ll explain later, just keep quiet.”

“But I want Mama and Papa!” Minho’s voice rose in pitch, shaking slightly with the tears of a tired child.

His uncle suddenly picked him up and settled him on his hip, shushing him again. Minho pouted, but settled, head coming to rest on his uncle’s broad shoulder, watching the ending of the ceremony with heavy eyes.

“In the sweat of thy face shall thou eat bread, till though return unto the ground; For out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. Amen.” 

“Amen,” the small crowd chorused in response.

“Mama and Papa?” Minho questioned tiredly, his words slurring slightly as his eyes drooped shut, clinging even more tightly to his uncle as he started to fall asleep, despite the cold and rain.

“Later, Minho, later.”

_Two years later…_

Minho giggled madly, running as fast as his small legs could carry him down the castle hall. The eight year old skidded around a corner, nearly running into one of the scullery girls, who gave him a scolding shout as he flew by her.

“Ah ha, I got you!”

Minho squealed as he was suddenly lifted into the air, breaking into another fit of giggles once he realized it was Lord Hughes that had interrupted his running.

“What do you have there, young man?” Lord Hughes asked with a smile, indicating the bottle that Minho held tightly in his hands, somehow surviving the wild run from the infirmary.

Minho smiled mischievously. “It’s dye!”

“I see. And what were you going to do with the dye?”

“Color my hair! Like one of the bluebirds in the garden!”

“Lord Hughes!” Minho’s uncle came around the corner, interrupting the conversation, panting for breath as he slowed to a stop in front of the lord and gave a small bow. “I see you caught this mischievous sprite.”

Minho wiggled to try and escape, but Lord Hughes’s grip remained firm and Minho eventually quit moving, pouting at finality of his capture.

“I did indeed,” Lord Hughes said, chuckling. “He’s quite enthusiastic about his little adventure, said he wants to be a bluebird.”

Minho crossed his arms as he was set down, Lord Hughes’s hands on his shoulders keeping him in place. “And I would’ve gotten away with it, too,” he muttered, kicking at the stone floor.

Minho’s uncle snorted at the comment, looking halfway between amused and exasperated. “He’s been saying that for the last month. At this point, I might as well do it myself before he turns himself entirely blue.”

Minho perked up at that. “Really?”

His uncle gave him a pointed look. “Maybe.”

Minho had the decency to look a tad ashamed, though his eyes still glinted with hidden mischief.

After the grownups had a short conversation, Minho and his uncle walked back to their living quarters, Minho’s hand safely nestled inside his uncle’s larger one.

“Tell you what, Minho, I’ll make a deal with you. If you stay out of trouble for two weeks, we’ll try to dye your hair.”

“Really?!” The eight year old looked up excitedly at his uncle, who smiled back at him.

“Really.”

“Deal!” Minho skipped along for a few steps, then: “I’ll be _extra_ good, then,” was declared, making Minho’s uncle laugh.

The eight year old had lived in the castle for the last two years under his uncle’s care since his parents had died from the plague. No one in his home village had been willing to take him in, so away he’d gone to live in a lord’s castle. His uncle held the occupation of healer and was responsible for not only the castle, but also helping out in the surrounding villages. It was a fine occupation, if a bit difficult at times, but Minho’s uncle enjoyed his work.

Minho, for his part, was a spritely and mischievous child that enjoyed running through the castle halls, intent on fulfilling whatever personal mission he was on. His curiosity knew no bounds and sometimes his uncle would be at his wits end trying to keep the child occupied (though the cats in the stable were proving to be a good distraction as of late). The absence of his parents didn’t seem to bother Minho much, though on a rare occasion they were brought up without too much distress.

At nine, Minho’s uncle took him twice a week to the local monastery for reading lessons. The monks were old and kind, taking the young boy under their wing. Minho picked up on the skill quite quickly and as he got older (and more serious, his uncle would woefully say, making Minho roll his eyes), he lived for the days he would spend at the monastery, reading and writing. By the time he was twelve he had read most of the what the castle library had to offer, big, dusty tomes of philosophy and theology that Minho didn’t quite understand but still consumed. It was much the same at the monastery, until the ancient gardener showed Minho the entire bookcase dedicated solely to plants and their uses.

After he made his way through the first shelf and about a hundred questions, his uncle decided it was time to pass his craft onto his young nephew. He’d never seen his nephew so fascinated with anything else (other than cats, of course, as the ones that inhabited the castle and surrounding area could attest to) and Minho took to it like a fish to water, despite his young age. It was in his blood, his uncle would say. He’d come from a long line of those in the healing profession of varying levels of usage, so it was only natural he felt the draw to learn it.

At thirteen, Minho was accompanying his uncle on his rounds, both in the castle and the surrounding villages, soaking up the experiences and the knowledge that was offered quickly. Sometimes, but only if it was absolutely necessary, Minho would be left in charge of the castle’s infirmary. The questions still came and they were willingly answered. He still visited the monastery when he could, though as his life got busier he was unable to make as many visits as he had when he was younger.

“Your mother enjoyed doing this,” his uncle said one evening when Minho was fourteen. The two were hunched over the wooden table at the far end of the infirmary, grinding plants into fine powders for various recipes with a mortar and pestle, candles flickering in the faint summer breeze that blew through the open windows.

“She did?”

“Mhm,” his uncle hummed. “She wasn’t quite as into it as you and I are, but she knew her way around the basics. She had a knack for it, like you. Primarily used it in her cooking.”

Minho had very foggy memories of his mother, so he personally couldn’t reliably attest to it, but he believed his uncle. “Do you have any of her recipes?” He asked curiously, emptying the ground herbs from his mortar into small cloth bags.

  
His uncle shook his head ‘no’, a sad look coming over him. “Sadly, she kept her recipes a secret and you know how I am with cooking, else she might have taught me.”

Indeed, Minho did. Too many a pot had been donated to the blacksmith’s scrap pile from his uncle’s cooking attempts. Cooking was another skill Minho had picked up in a short amount of time, making their travels much easier if they had to go long distances from the castle or any of the villages around it.

His uncle suddenly snorted. “She actually managed to poison your grandfather once by accident. It wasn’t lethal, but he avoided anything that was red or looked like holly for months after the incident.”

Minho chuckled. “And you didn’t accidentally poison anyone while learning?”

His uncle gave him a deadpan look. “Myself. It was awful. Never tried the recipe again.”

Minho laughed at that, the laughter echoing pleasantly around them. Even his uncle cracked a smile at the sound.

“Just you wait, young man, you’ll do it once and you won’t be laughing then.”

Minho’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “If I haven’t yet, I can’t imagine I’ll do it ever.”

“Oh, you will, trust me.”

It was quiet for awhile, the night peaceful. Minho could faintly hear the nightlife outside the castle. One frog in particular was trying his best to make his presence known to the world, his companions sounding quiet in comparison to his bellowing. The grey cat curled around Minho’s feet was purring in her sleep, a paw twitching ever so often. He suddenly smiled; his heart was full. He was happy with his life. A trade he enjoyed, a loving uncle and friends, a lord that was kind and fair in his ruling. Life couldn’t be any better than this.

“What are you smiling about, my sprite?”

Minho laughed quietly. “I’m happy, Uncle. Happy with life and where I am.”

His uncle smiled softly, watching his sister’s son hum quietly as he worked. For fourteen, Minho often more serious than those his age, taking his responsibilities seriously. He gave much thought to many things, reading whatever he could, when he wasn’t busy with his duties as his uncle’s apprentice and aide.

_‘If only you could see him now, dear sister,’_ his uncle thought to himself. His sister’s life, and that of her husband’s, had ended too soon, the plague taking them painfully and quickly. Their graves were still unmarked, he thought absently, pouring his own herbs into the little pouches. Maybe he should get that fixed.

Life for Minho and his uncle continued on much the same as always. Sadly, though, not all that was good and fair and kind lasted in Minho’s quiet, but busy life. The worst thing about the change that it wasn’t sudden and violent. Rather, it was slow and gradual, creeping around the corners like the dark shadows that haunt the night.

And he never saw it coming.


End file.
